I walked with my traveler and thought about time,
thought of it arriving
over the rim of consciousness,
that the farthest galaxies get younger
as they speed off from us
in lights the color of sixties lipgloss,
that consciousness has only one voice
which continues utterly
and I wanted it forever for my own . . .
Standing by in the marshes: eternity and a few phoebes,
the nests of woodrats piled high with sticks,
thick medicinal cattails,
and blackbirds rose in polyvalent song,
a song just about the strength of fishing nets;
and I wanted to go on walking
away from cities like this,
casting off raffle tickets and approximations
where the needy kept pulling us,
without time with him as my freedom,
though I was too close to be loved,
I wanted to see, not apart from this other being
the smart and actual motions of the clouds—